


I Am One With Your

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apologies, M/M, Spirit - Freeform, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 15: Spirit. The Winchester family hears volumes when they listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am One With Your

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

Downtime’s the safest place for the Winchester family to stop and reassess, a the only time where a little contemplation isn’t going to get one of them hurt or killed. Occasionally one of them will change their habits around, and even though they’re close, they always seem to learn something new about one another. They’ll cling to one another for a few days, touching and speaking quietly, keeping one another in close sight, reassuring one another that they’re all okay. Sam’s natural argumentativeness all but disappears during that time, and it always reminds John that there are things in this world to be thankful for.

After some of the unspoken tension and fear have dissipated, grounded themselves out, they fall into routines – John’s the one to start, making sure that once injuries have healed, they’re all training regularly, trying for harder and faster and stronger than they were before. Just before the boys get cranky about the enforced activity, John will let up, leave the boys to their own devices.

He’s been thinking about yesterday, knows that it’s the interruption to the old routine that’s got Dean up in arms and defensive, realizes that Dean probably senses that he doesn’t have the whole story. John won’t put up with the boy’s attitude, but he’s done scolding, too. Instead, once they’re finished with the translations, he takes his oldest boy for a pre-dawn run, leaving Sam curled up under the covers.

It’s more of a walk, really, the air is a little too sharp for a run. Dean turns his old eyes on his father, and John knows, feels it vibrate along his bones.

“Whatever it is you want to ask, son.”

“Sam hiding something?”

“No.” The simple word relaxes his son. “Been getting him to talk to me about Stanford.”

Dean snorts. “Know more about that than he thinks I do.”

“That text we’ve been working with –“

“I know why he’s able to translate it,” Dean says quietly. John’s startled by the revelation. Dean feels the same about most occult practitioners. “You think I would have let him get into something dangerous?” The boy snorts, and there’s silence for a few moments, John can feel the conversation moving along even though there aren’t any words. “He doesn’t like to talk about Jess, Dad, I’d think you’d’ve had more respect for that.” The criticism is quiet, and it stings just under John’s skin, static electricity running rampant over his tense muscles.

“I don’t push him, Dean.”

“I know.”

There are so many things that are said in between those lines, but the morning is still, their voices quiet in the crispy air, and they both understand.

“I’m sorry,” John offers gruffly, hearing his son speak without words, confessing his worry for their Sam, the queer feeling of abandonment when the family goes somewhere Dean can’t, the sympathy for Sam who feels that way often. There’s riptides that speak of the regret that Dean doesn’t always know how to say things out loud, the way that Sam would hear them best, and the fact that it makes him angry and irritable that he fails at something so important is bald in the silence of dawn.

“Me too,” offers Dean. John’s silent plea tugged quietly on him, if the words had been said out loud, they’d have been said over a whiskey late in the night, and John’s face would be in his hands, hiding the wounds that pushing his sons cause him, covering the tear in his heart that the conflict of loving them and trying to avenge Mary has caused. And the quiet undertone of regret for pushing Sam away, and sorrow for the hurt that Dean, the desperation to gather Sam back into the strong fold of John’s arms any way he can, the pleasure that the research is an easy way to do so, all of that washes like rain over Dean.

The kitchen is warm when they walk in, Bobby and Jim sitting over breakfast. The feeling of normal is almost a disconnect for the two of them, and John nudges his son to go wash up at the kitchen sink. Jim sets steaming mugs of coffee black as night, bitter and strong before them. This too, regenerates their souls. A kitchen table, homemade sausage that one of Jim’s parishioners brings him instead of a tithe. They chuckle for a few minutes over one of Bobby’s stories, and the relaxation of the room bleeds into their veins as they come fully alive under the influence of Jim’s coffee.

“Dean, go get your brother up.”

Bobby stops the boy before he gets up. “Sam’s out, went for a walk.”

“When?”

“Not long after you.”

John looks at the clock. “Should have been back by now.”

Bobby grunts, knows the boy is fine, but he hears the hint of fear in John’s voice, knows what to do about it. “He went up the east path. Grab your jackets, we can go meet him on his way back. Walk off those damn sausages, Jim.”

Dean groans a little, but he feels the same pinch of worry that John does. Sam’s not an early riser, by any means, and he knows that even though the boy worked out his frustrations the other day, he’s still fretting in his silent way over Dean’s behaviour.

They walk along the path – at least Sam’s chosen the shorter trail. The four of them are quiet, breath steaming in the morning air, visible in the new rays of sunlight. Bobby’s got point, and they’re near the halfways point when he holds up a hand, asking for quiet, asking for stealth. John and Dean, their hearts pound with fear as they follow Bobby up into the clearing, Jim’s calming hands on each of their shoulders doing nothing to soothe them.

The clearing is full of sunlight, and Sam’s stripped down to just a T-shirt and jeans. He moves gracefully along the meadow, his strong limbs defining blocks and kicks, punches and strikes as he floats through the kata’s powerful motions, his training in dozens of martial arts studios clear to see. The sun washes through his soft hair, highlighting his face, and Dean’s breath just about stops, because Sam’s beautiful. They stand watching without a word, and the boy just goes on.

Each man sees something different in the boy, Dean’s overtaken by the beauty and grace, John draws comfort from the power of the well formed muscles and self-reliance, Bobby sees maturity and discipline, and Jim is captivated by the look of utter peace that Sam’s wearing. As they stand, their thoughts go full circle, each man coming to see what the other does, standing almost in awe as the realizations fill their minds. The boy’s movements are smooth and strong, his breathing even, as the pattern goes on. He moves from one form into another, barely a pause in between, and Jim makes a slight noise of recognition.

He leans in and breathes in to the men’s ears. “Last form.”

Dean’s almost trembling with desire. He turns to Jim. “You recognize…”

Jim nods. “Taekwondo. It’s the last black belt form that’s taught, son. Oneness.”

And Sam does seem to be one with even the air around him, the sunlight twining through his motions, his feet not even ruffling the last of the fall leaves as he advances and retreats. The four men stand and watch the final motions of the form, feeling alive. Sam comes to stillness, simply breathes, and all of them, all of them are humbled by the strength of the spirit before them.

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Would You Harbor Me


End file.
